Seriousness
by Scribbler
Summary: The problem with being Traverse Town’s first line of defence is that when worlds disappear and survivors arrive, people automatically expect you to deal with it. Leon gets into trouble dealing with the latest newcomer. KH/The Dark Knight crossover.


**Disclaimer****:** Psychotically not mine.

**A/N****: **My second entry for the 'Poker Face' challenge at KH Drabble. I hadn't actually planned to write a second one, but it's funny where your mind goes at 3am when you can't sleep and it's raining outside. _Kingdom Hearts_/_The Dark Knight_ crossover, but no spoilers.

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_**Seriousness**_

© Scribbler, June 2009.

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The problem with being Traverse Town's first line of defence, Leon reflected, was that when worlds disappeared and their survivors were dumped on your doorstep, the citizens automatically expected you to deal with it.

Actually, the _real_ problem wasn't _all_ the survivors, just the psychotic ones. The ones who cowered in fear, or were too shell-shocked about losing everything and everyone they ever cared about, those were difficult enough, but manageable. Admittedly, Leon preferred leaving those to Aerith and assigning himself as just the courier who collected them from wherever they'd landed and took them into town. In Leon's mind Aerith was the natural choice for coaxing victims out of themselves and introducing them to their new lives gently. Even Yuffie could sometimes bring a smile out of the blankest, most traumatised faces, which was more than he could do.

But when a star vanished from the sky you couldn't pick and choose who made it out alive, and the psychos belonged to Leon.

He couldn't be sure the others would understand – or accept – the idea of necessary force. At least, not the way he did. Aerith proffered open hands, Yuffie shoved food and jokes at newcomers – even Cid had been known to hold out his pack of cigarettes if it looked like someone needed one. Leon, on the other hand, had his gunblade unsheathed and offered a view of gleaming metal to make newcomers really think about what they wanted to do next. He kept his face empty, not letting them read anything in his hard eyes or the perfectly level line of his jaw. He'd learned a long time ago that putting something in your expression wasn't half as effective as filling it with nothing.

This one wasn't like the others. Still, Leon managed to keep his eyes flat and his mouth an uninterested line – impressive when you considered he was bound to a chair and blood was dribbling down his temple from a chunk of missing scalp.

The newcomer couldn't lift his gunblade. He would've thanked heaven for small mercies if he'd believed in it. The press of metal against his throat was still deadly, though. Dagger, shank, carving knife or a sword like Cloud's; a blade was still a blade. It could still cut you, still end your life – or make you wish you were already dead. Leon got the feeling this newcomer was no stranger to _that_ sort of entertainment. The lividly painted scar, tongue constantly wetting his lips, and the manic tick of his eyes suggested several possibilities, none of which inspired confidence.

Leon met the feverish stare directly. You weren't supposed to antagonise unbalanced people, especially ones who'd tied your ankles so tight your bones ground together when you twitched. Chalk that up as another stupid act today; the first, of course, was letting this guy lead him into the sewers to get the drop on him in the first place.

The newcomer pouted. It was one of the most disturbing things Leon had ever seen. He waved the makeshift knife from side to side, as if trying to hypnotise his captive. Only hard blue eyes reflected in it.

"Still nothing? You're a real tough audience. Seriously, I'd hate to play you at cards with that face." The psycho gripped Leon's lapels and yanked so hard the chair left the floor. The bridges of their noses actually crashed together. Leon smelled the hot stink of greasepaint and sweat. "Why… so… serious?"

Leon stayed silent, but inwardly acknowledged it was no wonder so many kids were afraid of clowns.

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_**Fin.**_

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End file.
